


And Some With Traps

by blackkat



Category: Torchwood
Genre: Angst, Betrayal, F/M, M/M, Open Ending, Romance, Secrets
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-26
Updated: 2012-05-26
Packaged: 2017-11-06 00:50:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,903
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/412884
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blackkat/pseuds/blackkat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For Ianto, there are two choices to be had: speak, or stay silent. Some days the choice is harder than others.</p>
            </blockquote>





	And Some With Traps

**Author's Note:**

> Another short, angsty piece, something of a what-if, set pre- _Everything Changes_. It can be seen as AU, if that's the way you roll. It's also angsty, angsty fluff—I really can't stress that enough. The title is a quote from my favorite play, _Much Ado About Nothing_ : “Some Cupid kills with arrows, some with traps” (III, i, 106).

It’s a bad day. Lisa hadn’t known him, even in the brief periods she was actually lucid, and Ianto can feel the crushing weight of failure looming in his future. He wants to save her so much, wants to bring her back to full life instead of this robotic half-life. But sometime, some days, he almost wishes that he never found her, or that he had died in Torchwood London right along with her.

That would have been far easier, Ianto thinks, slumping down on the couch in the Hub and resting his head in his hands. He’s tired, so tired, and it doesn’t seem like anything will ever change. This limbo will continue forever, and Lisa will never recover, and he will never be able to move forward, only stay in this one spot until time itself winds down, drowning in contradictions. He takes pains to go unnoticed, to blend in, and then resents the team when they don’t notice him. He hides everything about himself, lies about his background, and then feels bitter when the others don’t ask him anything. The paradox is so utterly ironic, and Ianto resents it all the more for that. Sometimes, on the particularly bad days, he almost thinks that he’d confess everything if someone confronted him.

Someone—someone like Jack.

There's something there, between them, growing stronger even with all of the lies and the secrecy—on both their parts. Ianto is an accomplished liar; he can tell when someone is keeping something from him, because he knows exactly what to look for from the times he does it himself. And this…this _thing_ they're nurturing is an aspect of their relationship that’s been apparent from their very first meeting, from the very first _glance_. Ianto wants to rail against it, call it a betrayal of Lisa, a betrayal of the memories of those who fell in the Battle—because where was Torchwood Three then? Where was Captain Jack Harkness when Yvonne Hartman was preparing to destroy the world?—but he _can't_. It’s too much, but at the same time not enough. He wants _more_ , even though he knows it’s a damning desire. He wants _Jack_.

He’s never wanted anyone quite this much, not even Lisa, and it’s so tempting at times, the thought of throwing himself at Jack's feet and begging for forgiveness. No matter what Jack decided, it would break this god-awful limbo and force a change into Ianto’s damnably static world.

A shaky breath escapes him, like it’s seeking for a freer, happier host, and Ianto tries not to shiver as he lets it out. He’s too thin, the stress of the past few months leaving him with little time to sleep and less time to eat, and it shows. Ianto’s never been the type to carry extra weight, and now, in the chilly Hub, he can feel every ounce he lacks. Maybe that’s the way out, though. Maybe if he wastes away to nothing he’ll find this was all just a nightmare, and will wake up in his nice, soft bed with Lisa—

 _Or Jack_ , his subconscious prompts with a wicked laugh.

It’s getting hard to pick one desire as the primary, one person above the other. He and Lisa loved each other, were happy together in a way that Ianto had thought was reserved for old married couples. But there was no fire, the spark having long since settled into a contented hum.

With Jack, it’s like a bonfire, a wildfire jumping the break and devouring everything in front of it without care. And they haven’t even _done_ anything yet beyond look and think.

Ianto knows Jack thinks about it, maybe even more than he simply thinks about sex in general, which is truly flattering. At the same time, Ianto thinks about it almost constantly—whenever he gets those sly glances across the room, or a brush of fingers passing out coffee, or that special, bright smile Jack seems to reserve for him. He shouldn’t, and he knows it—this is about as far as he can get from faithful, and Ianto has never particularly thought of himself as a betrayer.

But at the same time, he’s only human. It’s been months since he last let himself go, let himself relax and just _take_ without worrying about the consequences. And he wants it so much, to take Jack, or have Jack take him, to stop _thinking_ even for a moment about what-ifs and could-have-beens. It’s like he’s the two-bit traitor in some Ian Fleming novel, soon to be uncovered by the dashing hero and condemned to some terrible death, because that’s what always happens to spies. And Jack certainly is dashing; one has to give him that, no matter his other faults.

There's a low-level ache starting in Ianto’s temples. He rubs at it futilely, willing the migraine to leave him in peace for at least a few more hours. There are several more hours of work to be done in the Archives, and Tosh had requested some data on the Rift monitor from a few years ago. He’ll do it, too, just…in a moment.

A scent fills the air, subtly spicy and a little musky, and then the couch dips as someone takes a seat next to him. Ianto takes a deep breath, but he doesn’t need the scent of 51st Century pheromones to tell him whom it is; he just knows, bone-deep, in a way that unnerves him more than Lisa’s empty eyes ever could.

The Captain doesn’t speak, and Ianto doesn’t, either—doesn’t even pick his head up. Today is a bad day, and too much temptation could have him spilling everything. Though, admittedly, a large dose of Retcon would be almost welcome at the moment.

And then Jack does the one thing that Ianto can't resist.

He _cares_.

“Yan?” he asks softly, and a large hand, calloused from his gun, settles on the nape of Ianto’s neck. “Ianto, what’s wrong? Are you okay?”

 _No_ , Ianto wants to scream. _No, I'm not okay and I haven’t been since the Cybermen and Daleks tried to invade Earth through the office building where I worked._ He was a _researcher_ , for the love of God. He was a glorified _librarian._ For all that he worked with alien tech, he’d never seen a living alien before the start of the Ghost Shifts. And now, here he is, helping to hunt them every day, feeding them, cleaning up after them, trying to save his first love from becoming one of them.

But Ianto Jones, secretary, maid, coffee boy, and all-around gofer, is always composed and never hysterical. He clears his throat with a harsh bark and nods without raising his head. “Yes, sir. I'm fine.”

The hand on his neck slides a little lower, not intended to arouse, just rubbing gently at tense muscles. “Sorry, Mr. Jones, try again. You hardly look ‘fine’.”

He doesn’t feel it, either—and suddenly, Ianto can't bring himself to pretend anymore. He leans back into the touch with a painful sigh—like the air is being ripped from his lungs—and lets his head drop onto Jack's shoulder. It’s an intimate movement, something that a couple would do, but Ianto can't stop himself.

“Three months,” he says softly, and knows that Jack will understand the meaning of the anniversary.

An arm slides around his side, pulling him close, and Ianto blesses the fact that Jack is a tactile creature as a soft kiss is dropped onto his hair. “I'm sorry,” the Captain whispers, and there's so much sympathy in his voice that Ianto could cry.

 _Why_? he wants to say. _Why are you sorry for me? Why haven’t you seen that I'm betraying you? You can see this, why not everything else?_

There's no answer, because it’s a question Ianto will never ask. Instead, he turns to Jack and opens his eyes, meeting that worried blue gaze from just inches away. Worry isn’t the only thing it holds, though—there's a hunger present that Ianto _wants_. And something he does, some small sound he makes must give it away, because Jack leans down that last inch and covers Ianto’s lips with his own.

It’s beautiful. Incredible. Like the best red wine or the smoothest chocolate or the clearest night, or all three at once, and Ianto _basks_ in it. Warmth, when he thought all he could feel was cold. Sweetness, when all he thought he had left was bitterness. _Kindness_ , when for so long all he’s seen has been cruelty. _Jack_ , when all he thought remained was empty brown eyes and a mechanical heart.

Jack pushes at him, bearing him down to the couch in an easy, practiced movement, and Ianto lets him even though he could easily protest. But he doesn’t _want_ to. This is good, wonderful, _extraordinary_ , and Ianto’s not about to give it up. Not even for Lisa.

They're nose-to-nose, staring at each other in odd imitation of that first time in the warehouse, only reversed. Jack looks at him with the world in his eyes, and Ianto has to close his own or risk blurting out everything here and now. He feels hands on his face, those familiar calluses, and has to look again—just once more, just one more time and this will be the last, and then he’ll get up and go back to archiving, and—

Jack smiles at him, that wide, happy grin that almost always manages to be genuine, regardless of the situation, and Ianto it lost. He leans up, kisses it off Jack's lips to taste that joy for himself, greedy and wanting. Jack seems surprised, but happy enough to go along with it. his hands skim down Ianto’s side, touching gently, and Ianto could cry from that too, because it’s been _so long_ since he’s been the recipient of such kindness.

But there's an ache in his gut to match the one in his head, and he can't do this with it there.

“Stop,” he whispers, “Jack, wait a moment.”

Jack pulls away from where he was inspecting Ianto’s neck with his lips, and frowns in that little-boy way Ianto secretly finds so endearing. “What is it, Yan? You don’t like it?”

He sounds so put out that Ianto can't help but reassure him with a touch, even as he chokes on what to say. The confession is right there on the tip of his tongue, clamoring to come out, and there's been a horrible suspicion growing in Ianto’s heart for months now that Lisa is beyond anyone’s help—he’s been reading everything there is to read about Cybermen, and he’s found stories of how they use human emotions to gain the upper hand. While his heart rebels at the thought of Lisa already being one of those _things,_ he’s been forced to admit that this is one enemy that he isn’t ready to face on his own, whether she is one or not.

And Jack…Jack is a good man, who does what he has to in order to save the world.

A whole universe hangs on Ianto’s next words. He can feel it, sense it, and it staggers him. A deep breath, another, and the words are on his lips. The confession is ready to be uttered.

He can speak, or he can stay silent.

In the end, there's only one choice.


End file.
